


so sudden and so sweet

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi, how do you call it when your background ship starts slowly taking over, i don't want to love e/R so much but i do, they're just too goddamn good to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:04:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marius' new roommate doesn't turn out to be a raging serial killer like Jehan originally predicted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

All signs indicate that it's not going to be a good day for Jehan.

He knows that as he knows the sky is blue.

Except the sky is not blue today; it's more of a dirty grey, mixed with icy rain. Ah, the beauty of living in the city. Sometimes he seriously considers moving away to live in a forest somewhere, except then he'd probably have to eat slugs to survive, and he's not ready for that sort of compromise yet.

And on top of the weather, his favourite lavender sweater ripped this morning while he was trying to pull it on. He was now wearing his least favourite one, the turquoise one, the one in which nothing good ever happens. He prepares himself for a day of utter horribleness.

"You'll never believe what happened to me this weekend", Marius says, suddenly appearing and throwing himself over Jehan's counter.

Marius worked in the children's department of the library, just one glass wall away from Jehan. They bonded over long, boring afternoons with nothing much to do except talk and occasionally play darts with the '50 Shades of Grey' poster that hung on the wall of the adult's department.

It took Jehan a long time to admit that he liked Marius, despite his habits of walking around like his legs were made entirely out of wobbly knees and occasionally walking into doors by mistake.

"Try me", Jehan answers drily. He hasn't even had his coffee yet, and the way the wind is howling and the rain is pounding against the library windows reminds him spring is still a long way away. It's his most hated time of year, late February slipping to March, wet and cold and grey and hostile.

Nobody writes poems about slosh and mud and frozen over pavement.

 _And_ it's a Monday.

Marius leans on the counter with his elbows, apparently unaware of Jehan's bad mood, and looks around the room.

"Um, is-"

"She isn't coming in before 10", says Jehan tiredly. Marius' shy little crush on Cosette, Jehan's new colleague, was a painful thing to be involved in. Mostly, Jehan just had to listen to Marius wax poetical about her blue eyes ("They're so... like... blue"), and pretend like it wasn't odd for Marius to drop in their department ten times a day, pretending just to check in.

"I'm the only one to be your rapt audience today. Spill it."

"I got into this massive fight with my grandfather, and he actually kicked me out."

Jehan's eyes widen. Marius lifts up a finger.

"Don't worry. Just don't. I'm not even half way through the story. So I'm wandering down the streets, all miserable, all my fucking belongings gathered up in a sports bag over my shoulder - God, he's such a fucking dick, I can't even - anyway, I'm looking for a place to hide from the rain, and I round the corner, and run into this dude, who is like, _super_ friendly. We start chatting, and I kind of admit to him that I just got kicked out, and can you guess what he says?"

"To move in with him", says Jehan, horrified.

"Exactly! I'm just looking for a new roommate, he said, and you look alright enough, why don't you come right now to my place to check it out-"

Jehan closes his eyes.

"I can't believe this."

"Wait, there's more!"

"You should've called me, or just someone, Marius, not run off with some _stranger_ \- don't tell me you're actually - you're not - are you actually living him _right now_? He could be some psycho-"

"No, but listen-"

"Oh my God", says Jehan. He can't listen to this. Marius' naivety was actually going to lead him to his death. The day has finally come.

"No, but actually he's really great-"

"He's going to eat your brain, using your fingers as chopsticks-"

"That sounds horrifying", a third voice chips in, and they both turn to a young man standing cheerfully at the door, dripping wet. He's wearing a red beret over his disheveled dark hair, and a wide smile Jehan can't help but notice.

The stranger walks into the room, with an easy, youthful spring to his step. He looks amazingly happy for someone soaked to the bone, with the hair on the back of his neck clinging wetly to the slightly tanned skin.

Jehan wonders why is he even noticing that.

"Hey, Marius, I looked for you in the children's department but they told me you'd be- oh, _hello_ ", the young man stops talking suddenly as he catches a full glimpse of Jehan.

He's used to it. Lots of people double-take when they see him - Jehan is an odd sight. His short, wild coppery hair sticks at all ends, and he usually wears bright, clashing colours. Today is no exception: the turquoise sweater over a soft pink shirt with floral pattern, combined with lilac coloured jeans.

The colours stick out of the crowd, and he likes that.

The man's smile brightens even more, if that was possible.

"Hi, I don't think we met. I'm Courfeyrac, Marius' new roommate. And you?"

Jehan's brain short-circuits. He expected a greasy creep with a bald spot, not a fucking Prince Charming.

 _Not_ Prince Charming. It's not Prince Charming.

It's just a guy, like any other guy, only with a smile that makes something flutter in the depths of Jehan's stomach.

"Jean Prouvaire", he croaks, shaking the man's - Courfeyrac's - hand. "Friends call me Jehan."

"And how should _I_ call you?", Courfeyrac says.

"Um", says Jehan.

He's not used to such bright personalities, or at least not used to interacting with them. And he's certainly not used to anybody looking at him like that, like they're so _goddamn_ glad to be talking to him today.

Marius clears his throat.

"Oh, yes", Courfeyrac says, looking back at Marius guiltily. His eyes are grey, with just a hint of green.

Jehan needs to stop staring.

"I brought you the spare key", Courfeyrac says, putting it in Marius' palm with a smile. "Finally found it, and you wouldn't believe where, under that potted plant I've been keeping in the hallway, forget my own head next, haha."

He glances to where Jehan is sitting, his eyes determinedly on the book he's picked out and opened at random, just so he could stop watching the radiant young man in front of him.

"How's Enjolras?", asks Marius, a little too eagerly. "I hope I wasn't much of a bother on Saturday."

 _Who the fuck is Enjolras_ , Jehan thinks, trying very hard not to listen to the conversation and failing.

"Not at all", Courfeyrac replies. "Everyone liked you very much. You have, as Bahorel said, 'the endearing spirit of a child'."

"Oh", says Marius, sounding disappointed.

"And as for Enjorlas", Courfeyrac continues, "he's angry about some guy we met yesterday in the café, I can't remember his name. They argued the whole night through; he was _so_ annoyed. He _literally_ can't stop talking about it. I personally liked the man, I thought he was extremely funny."

"I don't think you know how to use the word 'literally'", Jehan pipes up from behind his book.

Courfeyrac looks at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Did you know", he says, "you have ink on your nose?"

Jehan wishes he didn't keep on using that old, broken pen that leaks and makes a mess out of things.

He looks at his hands, finds a part of his palm that's the least covered in blue ink and rubs his nose, hoping it comes off.

"No", says Courfeyrac, watching him with amusement, "you're just getting it all over now. There's blue all over your nose. It's starting to look quite wonderful, actually. Your freckles have turned violet."

 _Why are you talking about my freckles_ , Jehan thinks. _This is not the kind of conversation normal people have. Why do I have to make such a complete idiot of myself every day?_

"Thanks for the key, anyway", Marius suddenly says, and they both look at him. "Um, don't you have class, or something...?"

"Right!", says Courfeyrac. "Right, yes. I'm a busy man, me", he says loudly, his eyes skirting once again to Jehan, or at least to his bright pink ears, the rest of his face now completely obscured by the book.

"See you later!", he shouts, disappearing with a few gleeful steps, casting one last glance in Jehan's direction.

The room is quiet for a moment.

"So", Marius says, looking full of himself.

It's not a look that suits him well. He vaguely reminds Jehan of a stuffed chicken.

" _Not_ a psycho serial killer, I should think."

"He still might be, he's just hiding it well", Jehan tries, but his cheeks are too red for him to have any kind of dignity left in this conversation.

"There is no point of dissuading you out of something, is it?", Marius says. "I better go. I can see kids eating chocolate around the fantasy section, and we all know how that ends."

He hurries off, in chase of sneaky chocolate-fingered villains.

********

When Marius comes back into the apartment after work that afternoon, Courf is waiting for him on the living room couch, eyes bright.

"You", he says, pointing one accusing finger, "are a bad, _bad_ roommate."

"Um", is all Marius manages in response. "I'm sorry?"

"We've been living together for what, almost three _whole_ days now, and you just forgot to mention that you work with, I don't even know, an actual angel descended from heaven?"

"What?"

"He dresses like a five year old whose parents told him he can pick out his own clothes! And he looks like a freakin' woodland creature, with those enormous, gorgeous green eyes, and - _and -_ he corrects your grammar!"

"Jehan?", Marius says, still feeling at a loss with this conversation.

" _Jehan_ ", Courfeyrac repeats, all but melting into the couch's cushions.

"Tell me, is he susceptible to chocolate? Flowers? Small fury animals? If I had to steal a cat for him, I _would_. And I hate cats."

"I don't think you should steal a cat", Marius says slowly. "And as for Jehan... he's just really shy. And really hard to win over. I mean, when I first started working, I waved to him every day through the glass wall, and it took him three weeks to actually wave me back. And another two for us to actually start talking."

"He wears shirts with flowers on themmmm", Courfeyrac says in return, face buried in the couch.

"Did you hear anything of what I just said?", asks Marius, taking off his jacket. "And I think the term is 'floral print'."

"I've got to talk to him again."

"He'll probably just blush and mumble things to his chin."

"He's the weirdest, cutest thing I've ever seen in my entire life."

"You'll have to try really hard. He's not going to fall for one of your chat-up lines", says Marius, who, even though sometimes naive to the brink of stupidity, has noticed certain things about Courfeyrac during the weekend.

"I would _never_ ", says Courfeyrac haughtily. "Marius, I wouldn't just use some stupid line on a person with violet freckles on his nose."

"Whatever you do", Marius replies, feeling bad about talking about Jehan behind his back, "just don't... you know. Do it well. Because if you two end up... and things happen... and then you break it off... well, I'm never going to hear the end of it, am I?"

Courfeyrac snorts in response, and jumps up from the couch.

"You're a strange young man, Marius", he says, putting a hand on his shoulder. "And since you were of no help at all right now, I must command you to wash the dishes, while I pick out an appropriate outfit for tomorrow!"

He runs off, cackling wildly.

"Do you even have classes at that university of yours?", Marius shouts irritably after him, but gets no response but the door of Courfeyrac's room slamming.

He sighs.

He starts washing the dishes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "your slightest look easily will unclose me  
> though i have closed myself as fingers,  
> you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens  
> (touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose"
> 
> E.E.Cummings

It's Friday, and the library is full, or at least, full for library standards, sometimes even more than six people pacing around the shelves and looking for books. Jehan keeps an eye on them, just in case somebody _does_ try to grab the complete unabridged version of 'The Odyssey' and make a run for it.

He's still sure it might happen, someday.

He's not strongly built, with slender shoulders and absolutely no muscles of any kind, anywhere, but he wages he could at least tackle them to the floor, and flap at them wildly with his arms until somebody else gets there, possibly Cosette, who, even though she looks frail, can knock a man out without blinking.

She demonstrated it to them one slow afternoon, after they goaded her about it for a good half an hour, knocking Marius unconscious with one quick swipe of her hand.

"Self-defense classes, bitches", she said, fixing her hair while Jehan tried not to panic, with Marius lying on the floor, his tongue sticking out unattractively.

His fantasies about life as an unlikely crime fighter are suddenly interrupted when a familiar face wanders in the room, immediately disappearing between the shelves. He can only distinguish the red beret, bobbing along from P to R, trying to look as nonchalant as possible.

Jehan can recognize this kind of situation. This is the kind of situation that always ends in Conversation, a conversation with a capital C, one with possible flirting and cute talk he really is no good at, and is he blushing already? Dammit.

The beret stops abruptly in the History section.

Jehan is most decisively not looking, except now he can spot a pair of grey eyes, staring back at him between the shelves, and - _oh god_ \- Courfeyrac is strutting across the hall, heading straight to him.

He leans on the counter, splaying his hands over the wood, and smiles.

It is, Jehan thinks, an unfortunately charming smile.

"Hello", Courfeyrac says. "How are you, Jean Prouvaire, whom his friends call Jehan? Note the _whom_. I've read up on some grammar since we last met. Also, the uses of the word 'literally'."

He grins now, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Can't help but notice your nose isn't blue anymore. Shame, it was a lovely look on you."

"Is there anything you came in here today for, other than commenting on the colour of my nose?", Jehan says, pretending his face isn't turning bright red by the second. He has to keep some of his decorum, at least.

"I was hoping you could recommend me some books", Courfeyrac says innocently.

"Um, yes, alright", says Jehan, dazed. "I've never seen you in the library before, are you new or...?"

"The charm of modern technology got the best of me, I'm afraid", Courfeyrac replies. "Why bother for a 20 minute walk to here, so I could borrow a second hand, grimy book, when I can buy one on the internet and have it shipped to my apartment in just 3 days?"

He notices the look on Jehan's face, and quickly says: "But, as I was saying, the library, it's so... great. Great and... just really great. Old books, I love 'em. So I, yeah, I wanted to put this card to good use."

"No, no, don't deny it", Jehan says. "I mean, no one even comes to the library anymore unless they need some very specific encyclopedia or they just want to draw nasty little pictures all over the books. It was inevitable, I guess."

Courfeyrac looks guilty.

"I still think libraries are pretty cool, though", he offers. "And look at me, I'm here! I'm looking for books! Maybe we're on the break of a new age, maybe people will start coming back! Only...", and he smiles at Jehan, "it will probably have more to do with the incredibly cute librarians, than with the books themselves."

Jehan huffs an embarrassed little cough, and turns to his computer.

"So", he says loudly, pretending not to notice how Courfeyrac's smile grows even wider, "what kind of a book are you looking for?"

"I'm ready to take whatever you recommend me", Courfeyrac says. "I'm putting myself entirely in your hands."

His eyes are crinkly at the corners again; that was such a horribly ambiguous sentence.

"I don't think that's such a good idea", Jehan says. "I mostly read just poetry."

" _Oh_ , I get it", says Courfeyrac. "A poet, aren't you? With the ink stained hands, and all. That's terribly stereotypical, you know. What do you write about?"

"A lot of things", Jehan answers, and then just continues talking, not sure why. "Mostly descriptive poetry, though. I guess I just haven't had that much of a big experience in life to write about myself, you know, or things that happen to me. It's quite a boring life, being a librarian. Not that I don't love it. I do. It's just, you know, not _very_ poetic, stacking books 8 hours a day."

He doesn't know why he's talking about his poetry and his life with this smiling stranger; he doesn't know why he is being so affected by the way Courfeyrac is looking at him. He refuses to be so easily charmed, even if Courfeyrac's curls fall so nicely in his eyes. Jehan realizes, with some horror, that he wants to reach out and ruffle his hair.  

"And here I thought you couldn't get any more perfect", Courfeyrac says earnestly, his face now dangerously close to Jehan's.

There is a quiet moment, in which Jehan blushes even more furiously, and Courfeyrac bites his lip to keep from grinning from ear to ear. And then he notices the clock behind Jehan's head.

"Shit, I'm late!", he says, jumping up. "Enjolras will kill me! Sorry", he shoots Jehan an apologetic look, "I have to go. I actually have to sprint, to be honest. We'll talk about that book later, if I make it out of this alive - sorry, I've got to-"

And he runs out of the room, pages of books fluttering as he rushes past them.

Jehan isn't staring after him.

He isn't.

 

*****

Almost a whole week after that, it's a slow day in the library, and Cosette is scrolling through Instagram and snorting every time she sees a picture of a Starbucks, and Jehan is very, very bored.

He saunters off to the children's department, where Marius is drawing something very determinedly on a piece of paper, ignoring the two primary school girls who have seized an encyclopedia of human anatomy and are giggling hysterically in the corner. Jehan, too, decides not to interrupt them in their education.

When he leans over Marius' shoulder, he can see dozens and dozens of little hearts crowding the page, and the letters M + C scribbled down furiously everywhere they could fit.

He sighs.

Pontmercy was really beyond all help.

Marius jumps up, and obscures the piece of paper behind his back hurriedly.

"I didn't see anything", Jehan says innocently.  "So, what's up with you?"

"Nothing", answers Marius stubbornly, but his eyes drift to the adult's department and a blonde figure hunched over the computer screen.

"Hello?", someone says, and they both turn to see a brown haired girl standing at the door nervously, her hands on the shoulders of a small boy with an angry look on his face.

"Marius? Hi", she says, smiling shyly.

They enter the room slowly, the girl gently pushing the boy in front of her.

"Eponine, right?", Marius asks, smiling wide. "Jehan, this is Eponine, she works as the waitress in that café where me, Courf and some of his friends hang out. This is Jehan. And this", he says, leaning over the counter and grinning at the boy, "must be Gavroche, am I right?"

Eponine blushes.

"Yeah, that's him. Remember how we talked about us coming to join? It'll do Gavroche a lot of good to start reading, I thought."

"I won't", mutters Gavroche sullenly, but her hands just grip him firmer.

"You will", she assures him, before lifting her head to smile once again at Marius. "So, um, how do we sign up?"

Marius fumbles with the computer program and Eponine stares at him like he's the sun.

Gavroche seizes the opportunity to stick his tongue out at Jehan. Jehan, not to be outdone, sticks his right back. The kid smiles wickedly in response.

"Here you go", Marius says, beaming at Gavroche. "Your _very own_ library card, isn't that exciting?"

Gavroche's face twists, and Jehan has to keep himself from laughing.

"Thanks", the boy mutters, taking the card, and tucking it into his pocket.

"Thank you _so_ much", Eponine says to Marius, with much heart.

"How about I help you pick out some books right now?", Marius says, and she all but collapses with gratitude. They disappear between the book shelves, with Eponine hanging on to every word Marius says, and Gavroche's face contorted into an exaggerated grimace of pain.

Jehan decides to go back to his desk, utterly defeated by this whole tedious day.

Back in the adult's department, Cosette is staring through the glass wall, eyes fixed on Marius as he walks along the shelves, picking out a book here or there, followed by a starry-eyed Eponine and a bored looking Gavroche, and there is a folded piece of paper on Jehan's counter.

"Cosette, what's this?", he asks, taking it suspiciously.

"What?", she snaps out of her thoughts suddenly, and looks at him with confusion. "What'd you say?"

"What's this?", he repeats, feeling stupid, and waves the piece of paper in his hand.

"I've no idea", she says, shrugging. "Sorry, I wasn't paying much attention. Someone probably left it for you."

Jehan unfolds the paper.

On it, a quatrain is scribbled down in unfamiliar handwriting, curly and crooked.

 

_I ne’er was struck before that hour_

_With love so sudden and so sweet,_

_His face it bloomed like a sweet flower_

_And stole my heart away complete._

 

He reads the verse again and again, unable to comprehend what's happening.

"Jehan, what is it?", he can hear Cosette's voice, muffled, like it's coming from a great distance.

"It's bloody poetry", he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me for making Jehan so terrified of making emotional connections with people! It's just how I see him, with walls put up every which way, and with very little people knowing how to get past them.
> 
> The 'bloody' poem is First Love by John Clare, a thing I stumbled upon quite accidentally during a late night browsing-for-love-poems quest. It's the first of many that'll be used in this fic (alright, not too many).
> 
> Feedback would be very much appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you, like, being courted, right now? Because that's how it looks. You might want to bring some handkerchief to work tomorrow, and, like, drop it, just to see if someone will pick it up after you. That's how you'll recognize them."
> 
> "That's ridiculous", Jehan protests.

"Someone's sending you... _poetry_?", Joly says, his eyes almost popping out of their sockets. "Wow, they're _good_."

They're in the living room of their small, colourful, pristine flat, which they've been sharing for almost a year now. Joly is taking up the couch, everything but his face hidden beneath the big blanket he nested himself in, and Jehan is staring at the small piece of paper in his palm. It's already raggedy at the edges from the amount of times he folded it and unfolded it, and turned it over his hands nervously, re-reading the verse over and over again.

He looks at his roommate. Joly looks back at him from his big blanket burrito.

"Did you go to your classes today at all?", Jehan asks, but he already knows the answer.

Joly shakes his head firmly.

"I'm coming down with something, I can feel it in my bones. I think it might be this new flu they've talked about on the news this morning. I'm taking my temperature right now."

"Right", says Jehan.

Arguing with Joly about his imaginary diseases was useless, he realized that a long time ago. In a few moments, he'll see his temperature is on a perfectly healthy level, and then he'll grumble and mutter he was 'so sure' it was something, and get on with his day.

"Well?", Joly prompts. "What are you going to do about it?"

"What can I do? I don't even know who sent it to me", Jehan says. His mind jumps momentarily to an image of dark, messy hair, and a shining smile. He shakes it off.

It's best not to get his hopes up.

"Are you sure? Come on, it's not like someone would just sent it to you out of the blue."

"I don't know", repeats Jehan stubbornly. He's not going to talk about Courfeyrac, not for now, at least.

"Are you, like, being _courted_ , right now? Because that's how it looks. You might want to bring some handkerchief to work tomorrow, and, like, drop it, just to see if someone will pick it up after you. That's how you'll recognize them."

"That's ridiculous", Jehan protests.

"Do you like it? The poem."

Jehan falls silent.

He does. He likes it. It's something new and something unexpected and something meant entirely for _him_. It's shaken up his whole day and he _loves_ it.

But it's scary to admit that something so little meant so much to him, a slip of paper with a sappy verse on it, something that could as well be a joke as it could be real.

"I, um, I do, I think. I don't know, I-"

Joly shoots him a look, and glances at the thermometer that is now miraculously in his hand.

"36, 6", he says, a little sadly. "I was _so_ sure I had a fever."

"Go to your goddamn classes, man", Jehan suggests, before running away.

******

The third time they meet, Jehan is sitting in the reading section of the children's department, his legs on the table, watching Marius deal with a particularly demanding kid who wants some oddly specific book he read about online. Marius stutters and flails, and the boy crosses his arms and stares him down.

"Look, can you find it for me, or do I have to go search for it myself?", he says, pursing his lips.

"You don't understand, the book is not catalogued, the library doesn't have it-"

"Whatever", says the boy, walking away. "I'll fucking download it. Don't know why I even bothered."

Marius turns to look at Jehan helplessly.

Jehan scribbles down a few verses in his notebook, and crosses his right leg over the left.

"Kids these days", is all he offers, before he continues writing. There is no conversation with Jehan while he is creating; his focus is somewhere far away, his tongue sticking out of his mouth slightly, and his eyes  are bright and sharp with concentration.

"Marius, lad!", someone booms from the door.

Jehan lifts his head to see a small group of men, all looking various degrees of uncomfortable with being surrounded by colourful cardboard flowers and small children running somewhere around the area of their knees.

"Are you coming with us today, or what?", asks one of them, a cheerful, large man with an undercut and a scruffy beard, who reminds Jehan vaguely of a friendly bear.

Somewhere in the behind of the group, he can see the red beret.

He's not going to let it bother him. Not today.

He's writing.

The men all walk in, taking in their surroundings.

"So, this is where you work, then", says one of them, a tall young man with glasses. He's wearing a turtleneck. Jehan thought no one wore turtlenecks anymore, unless they actually wanted to be ostracized from society. "It's lovely."

"Yeah", says Marius, looking at them with barely suppressed admiration. "This is my colleague, Jehan", he says, pointing at Jehan, who nods to the group, stretching an awkward smile.

"Jehan, these are Enjolras, Combeferre, Bahorel, Feuilly and Bossuet. The guys I've been telling you about, you know? And you already know Courfeyrac, so..."

Everyone turns to look at Courfeyrac, whose face is almost as red as his beret.

This is embarrassing.

"Oh, so _you're_ Jehan", the bear man says, grinning wickedly. "We heard a lot about you. Not from Marius, though-"

"That's enough, Bahorel", says Courfeyrac suddenly, looking uncomfortable.

Jehan turns his eyes back to his notebook.

He's going to be _cool_.

"My shift finishes in twenty minutes...", starts Marius hesitantly, and Combeferre, the guy in the turtleneck, finishes it for him, ignoring the huff of annoyance that comes from the blonde man Marius has introduced as Enjolras: "Yeah, sure, we can wait. Is it alright if we stay here?"

Marius just points them to the reading section, and they sit down by Jehan's table, squeezing into the miniature sized seats. The bear man - _Bahorel_ , Jehan's mind supplies - looks even more uncomfortable than earlier, regarding a small red plastic chair before him.

"I don't think this is such a good idea", he grumbles, before sitting down very carefully.

There are six of them sharing his table now.

He takes a moment to take them all in.

The one who looks like an angel, Enjolras, is staring at his phone screen, seemingly uninterested in his surroundings. He is unnaturally beautiful, with golden curly hair and dark blue eyes and an aristocratic nose. He would be an utterly breathtaking sight, if Courfeyrac wasn't sitting right next to him, with his messy dark hair and eyes that are so much greener today than usual.

It makes something in his stomach twist, and he has to force himself to look away. In his jacket pocket, the piece of paper shuffles and crackles. He carries it with him wherever he goes, even though he'll never admit it.

Combeferre smiles at him, and pushes the bridge of his glasses further up his nose, casting a reprimanding glance at Bahorel, who just grins wickedly, eyes darting between Jehan and Courfeyrac.

The ones Marius presented as Bossuet and Feuilly have taken up a picture book from one of the shelves and are reading it with interest, also not paying him much attention. Jehan's eyes drift back to Courfeyrac, who smiles at him shyly.

There is a moment of awkward silence, before Enjolras hisses through his teeth, eyes locked on the phone in his hand.

"Enjolras, why are you still on your phone?", asks Combeferre.

He answers without even looking up:

"That idiot posted the _most ridiculous_ status on facebook, I had to say something."

"Idiot?", says Combeferre, sounding confused. "What idiot?"

"You're friends with _Grantaire_ on facebook?", asks Bahorel with amusement.

"Well, _he_ added _me_ , so..."

Enjolras trails off, his nose practically touching the screen.

"He - he just told me I need to _get laid_! That bastard - _me_ \- the nerve-"

He starts typing furiously, completely lost in a world of his own.

Bahorel catches Jehan's eye and mouths the words 'he has a big, fat crush' as he exaggeratedly points at Enjolras.

"So, Jehan", says Combeferre. "You're a poet, we've heard."

He flinches when Courfeyrac shoots him an angry look, and quickly adds: "I mean, we didn't hear it _at all_. It's not like we talk about you, or anything. We didn't even know who you are up until now, _obviously_ , haha. I just guessed you were a poet. I was just guessing."

Bahorel looks close to tears, his mouth twitching at the sides.

Courfeyrac is very, very red.

Jehan decides to ignore it.

"Uh, yes, I...", he meets Courfeyrac's eyes, and holds them for a long moment, "I like... poems. Writing them, and, um, reading them."

There is an almost imperceptible crinkle to Courfeyrac's eyes at that comment, but Jehan catches it.

He bites his lip to keep from smiling.

"Apollo, my ass", Enjolras mutters darkly to his phone.

Everyone looks at him for a moment, before realizing he's not going to follow the strange comment with an explanation.

"Hey, guys, I'm ready to go!", Marius says, appearing suddenly by the table. Everyone jerks up, Bahorel looking annoyed the show's about to end, Combeferre looking relieved, and Feuilly and Bossuet looking like the rally they're about to go to isn't going to be much more interesting than the picture book they have to stop reading now.

When they all leave in a loud rush, arguing and telling each other to hurry up, and Bahorel sticking out a sneaky foot for Feuilly to trip on, and Jehan remains alone in the reading section, there is another piece of paper laying on the table before him.

 

_An evil spirit, your beauty haunts me still,_  
 _Wherewith, alas, I have been long possest,_  
 _Which ceaseth not to tempt me to each ill,_  
 _Nor gives me once but one poor minute's rest._

He tucks it into his jacket pocket, next to the first one, and smiles. 

*****

"He liked the poem", Courfeyrac mutters, running a hand through his hair. He's sitting on the couch again, his laptop in his actual lap, which makes Marius smile a little and wonder why are laptops actually called laptops. Surely it can't be because they're meant to be held in people's laps.

(It is, though. He googled it afterwards.)

Courfeyrac's eyes snap to Marius', and they're somewhat wild.

"I thought maybe I over-did it, maybe it was too creepy, too soon, but no. He liked the poem, Marius, don't you get it? He likes _me_."

"You don't think you're maybe reading too much into this? Just maybe", says Marius, watching the truly horrible looking mac-and-cheese he's been trying to cook up for the last fifteen minutes with concern.

He dabs at the yellow coloured blob in his pot one last time, and gives up, letting it bubble and simmer.

"That smells terrible", Courfeyrac says. "And, no, I _don't_ think I'm reading too much into this. Marius, I am the _king_ of subtext. I know what that smile meant. I'm charming the socks off of him, aren't I. His probably-floral-printed socks.  And you, _Judas_ ", he waves a finger threateningly in Marius' direction, "are not allowed to comment on my endeavor to win fair Jehan's heart _at all_ , seeing you didn't have the basic courtesy to ask him if he liked the note yourself, like I _asked_ you to."

"I didn't want to get involved in all of this", Marius says. "One minute it's all ' _oooh_ , Marius, can you ask him about my love letter?' and the next it's 'there is no point in living anymore. Tell him he's a bastard and I'm going to kill him'."

"Nonsense", Courfeyrac snorts, and turns his attention back to his laptop screen.

"Are you googling poetry again?', Marius asks, but he already knows the answer. Courfeyrac's face is screwed up in concentration, as he reads poem after poem on some gnarly site of his, probably called 50bestlovepoemsofalltimeforyourvalentine.com, or something awful like that.

"He liked the poem", Courfeyrac repeats stubbornly. "There is no way I'm going to let go of it if it's actually working. Besides, there are some really pretty ones here. I'm actually starting to understand poetry, dude. There's this guy called Neruda, I think I like him best. He writes with so much heart, but also sensuality, and the imagery-"

"Whatever", mutters Marius to his pot. The yellow blob puckers sympathetically.

His roommate is a hormone crazed maniac.

This is not going to end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's poem is An Evil Spirit by Michael Drayton, which I found in my raggedy old Penguin Book of Elizabethan Verse. Writing this fic involves reading so much poetry, good and bad, and I love, love, love it.
> 
> I'm pretty much writing this story chapter by chapter now, with only the vaguest idea of the direction in which I want this to go, sorry.  
> School's been kind of crazy and I'll probably be able to write only on weekends, so I guess this is going to progress much slower than I originally thought.  
> All comments are welcome!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Shall we roam, my love,  
> To the twilight grove,  
> When the moon is rising bright;  
> Oh, I'll whisper there,  
> In the cool night-air,  
> What I dare not in broad daylight!"
> 
> Percy Bysshe Shelley, 'To The Queen Of My Heart'

"So, uh, Jehan", says Courfeyrac. "I think I might really, _really_ , actually like him. The old fashioned, you know, sort of liking. With my brain freezing every time I see him, and all."

"Jehan", says Enjolras distantly, as he is with everything that is not to do with his immediate interests. "I think I heard that name before. Who is that?"

"That poet fellow we met a few days ago in the library", Combeferre supplies helpfully. "The one in the red jeans and floral printed Toms."

"Ah", says Enjolras with polite disinterest, before turning his attention back to his newspaper.

Courfeyrac stares at them helplessly.

"Well?", he asks. "Aren't you going to give me some advice? Some wisdom, passed on from father to son, which my own parents neglected to give me? What do I do? How do I-"

There is a huff of annoyance somewhere behind Enjolras' papers, but Courfeyrac barely hears it.

They're sitting in the Musain, a small café they've taken a liking to in the last few months, and having their first morning coffee together, just the three of them, before they scatter of to their respective classes. Courfeyrac likes it, the morning ritual with the two of his closest friends, even though right now one of them isn't even listening to what he is saying and the other is trying to be helpful but without much success.

"I've stayed up last night googling poetry until three in the morning", he says desperately. "Tell me, is that a normal thing to do? Is it, _really_? And I don't even know", he sinks his head into his hands, "how this even started. I mean, we talked, like, three times? No, scratch that, we talked two times, and that one time we just blushed at each other, and it was still one of the best damn conversations of my life..."

"I think we concluded he liked the poems", Combeferre tries, putting an awkward hand on Courfeyrac's shoulder. He shoots a reproachful look in Enjolras' direction, trying to signalize he needs help, but the blonde man doesn't even stir.

"There is something about him, that's just captivating. He's just... even his name, it's so..."

There is a silence. Combeferre is torn between being really uncomfortable and really wanting to help.

Then Courfeyrac continues: "I just don't want to mess this up. There is something, so, so, so _something_ , about him, that just makes me... I'm getting all gooey and nervous even thinking about it. I want to do this right. I want to do this the proper way. He's not the kind of dude for a one night stand, and with him, neither am I. I want to _read_ his _poetry_."

"Well, uh, that's only natural", says Combeferre, who feels like a true idiot right now. Why does he always get this role? The role of the boring dad, who never quite knows what to say?

"There, there", says Enjolras in a detached voice, now looking at his phone. Combeferre wants to slap him. He really, really does.

"You think I should just like, ask him out? Just like that?", asks Courfeyrac.

"I think you should", agrees Combeferre. "That way you might progress to something that is more... uh..."

Why is he even giving out relationship advice, when he hasn't had a proper date in years?

"I think you're right", says Courfeyrac, suddenly sitting up, and running a hand through his hair. "How do I look?"

"Oh, you're going to do it right now?", says Combeferre. "Oh, alright, um, you look fine."

"Good", says Courfeyrac, his voice hoarse, and he jumps up and exits the café quickly, almost tripping over his scarf.

Combeferre looks back at Enjolras, who is sugaring his coffee with a look of complete serenity on his face.

"You're an asshole", Combeferre says, as coldly as he can manage.

"What now?", asks Enjolras, lifting his eyes from his cup. "Hey, where's Courfeyrac gone?"

***** 

It's Thursday, a boring, bleak Thursday, like almost any other Thursday in Jehan's life so far, and he is so stuck he'll probably have to invent a completely new word for 'stuck'.

He is staring at the blank page of his notebook, so infuriatingly blank it takes all his will not to rip it in half and throw it over his head whilst screaming in a true Hulk-esque storm of rage.

Cosette and Joly are quietly talking behind him, her trying to gently dissuade him of the idea he has early set Alzheimers, just because he forgot to lock the apartment door this morning. Joly hangs out in the library sometimes, before or after his classes; he says they've got all the good medical encyclopedias, anyway.

Jehan jumps through different phrases in his mind, rolls certain sentences over his tongue, and ends up staring at the wall. After a moment, he scribbles down 'rosy cheeks???' and then crosses it over the very next instant angrily.

Nothing worked anymore, he's been without inspiration for weeks, and it's been worrying him more and more for the last few days. Not a line, not a verse.

It's like every time he picked up a pen, he hit a wall, and then continued to hit it until his head got all dark and cloudy, sparks flying about, and a familiar, warm smile faded in the picture.

He's just playing with the idea of going to the employee bathroom and sticking his head under the tap until he drowns himself or gets pneumonia when Courfeyrac struts in, and slams both of his hands on Jehan's counter cheerfully.

Jehan drops his pen.

"Hello, again", says Courfeyrac, grinning so brilliantly it seems to Jehan the whole room is suddenly lit up. "Here, let me."

He bends and picks up Jehan's pen carefully; when he hands it to him, their fingers brush.

And Jehan knows, in that moment, that he is so, _so_ done for.

"Listen, I'm actually late for class", Courfeyrac starts. "I know, this is getting kind of a cliché, but what can I do? So, I wanted to...", he trails off as his eyes slip to Jehan's still open notebook, scanning the page with curiosity.

"Rosy cheeks?", he says. "Double-crossed 'rosy cheeks' with an exclamation mark next to it and a angry doodle face? Man, somebody pissed you off _today_."

"It's nothing. Writer's block", Jehan says, closing his notebook. "What kind of book did you want? Poetry, perhaps?"

Joly and Cosette look at each other, and then at Courfeyrac.

 _'Him?'_ , they both mouth at the same time.

Courfeyrac's smile falters a little, as he suddenly realizes there are other people in the room.

"Sorry, I didn't... I'm Courfeyrac, I'm Marius's roommate?"

"Cosette", says Cosette quietly, staring right at him with an unreadable expression.

"I'm Jehan's!", Joly says, waving with an amount of cheerfulness that can probably match Courfeyrac's. "Roommate, that is. I mean, what I'm trying to say is, I'm Joly. My name is Joly. And I'm not Jehan's in any way, other than his roommate."

"Alright", says Courfeyrac, smiling again, and turning his attention back to Jehan. "What were we on about...?"

"Poetry", shoots back Jehan, determined not to stray from the subject. He feels oddly proud of himself for that amount of straight-forwardness.

Courfeyrac's lips tug upwards, but other than that, his face gives out nothing.

 _This is ridiculous_ , Jehan thinks.

They are both dancing around the edges of it, and they both know it, so why isn't one of them _saying something?_

"I'll leave the reading of poetry to you", Courfeyrac says, eyes bright. "No, actually, I wanted to... ask you something."

He suddenly looks down, and lifts a hand to rub his neck sheepishly, keeping his eyes on the desk.

"I was thinking... are you free tonight?"

Jehan's brain shuts down.

But before he gets a chance to speak and possibly embarrass himself completely in the process, Courfeyrac continues: "Cause I thought you'd like to join us in the Musain, it's this little café where we hang out all the time, and you already know all of the boys, and I just... You can come, too", he adds abruptly, glancing at Joly and Cosette, who suddenly look like deer in the headlights.

Cosette slips her reading glasses back on, which she always does when she wants to shelter herself from a situation, as Jehan knows very well, and looks at her computer screen.

"I, uh, maybe", she says, trying to sound disinterested. "I have plans."

"We'd love to go!", says Joly loudly. "Isn't that right, Jehan?"

Jehan's cheeks are burning. He doesn't know why he feels so disappointed with the fact Courfeyrac asked not only him, but Joly and Cosette too. He doesn't know why he thought, for a second there, Courfeyrac was actually going to ask him out.

"I guess", he mumbles, avoiding Courfeyrac's eyes.

"Great!", Courfeyrac beams, simply _beams_ at them. Jehan feels like he's being burned by the sheer radiance of his smile. Courfeyrac starts for the door, talking all the way: "You can just come with Marius, I think he'll be coming tonight too, just, no pressure, it'd be lovely if you made it - _ouch_ \- just hit a wall on my way out, no, it's fine, don't worry, it'll probably just be a minor bump - _ow_ , who put a chair there, _honestly_ \- it's been great meeting you, Joly, Cosette-"

And he disappears, with one last smile, narrowly avoiding hitting the door with his face.

All three of them are left sitting with dazed expressions.

 _It's that personality_ , Jehan thinks. _It just gulfs you in and embraces you and cuddles you closer and radiates warmth and when it leaves, you actually feel like it's gotten a little bit colder_.

Or that's just the way he feels, anyway.

"But what about the poems", he says to the empty room.

Behind him, Cosette snickers.

He throws a pen at her.

 

******

"Are you sure, _absolutely sure_ she'll come?", Marius insists.

"She said she _might_ ", tries Jehan.

They're walking down the street, along with Joly, towards a small café with a shabby sign saying 'Musain'. Jehan is very nervous. More nervous than he's ever been in his whole life, perhaps.

Beside him, Marius is still trying to pertain more information on Cosette's whereabouts from Joly, who answers all of his questions with a slightly trembly "...maybe?"

Jehan wonders if he has, perhaps, over-done it.

He's wearing light purple jeans, and a baggy sweater with flowers on it. The nails of his left hand are painted pink, due to Cosette having to check 'if the polish dries well' and Jehan being the closest soft tiny thing she could torture. His hair is incredibly messy tonight, having just been washed and carelessly dried, curls framing his face in a slightly frantic manor. There is ink on his right hand. How did that get there? He starts rubbing it furiously.

"Jehan?", Marius says. "We're here."

And now they're entering the café, and there really is no way out, and Marius heads straight for the booth in the most closed off section of the place, where he is greeted with a couple of cheers. Jehan doesn't even realize he's still frozen at the door, until Joly gently pushes him along, and suddenly they're at the table, and Courfeyrac jumps up, with a soft, surprised: "Jehan!"

Everyone looks at them, for a second, before returning to their conversations.

The booth is full, so full people are almost sitting on top of one another, Jehan notices. Enjolras and Combeferre are arguing about some political issue, Bahorel, Feuilly and Bossuet are talking sports, with Feuilly and Bossuet unfortunately squeezed on a seat that could barely hold one, and Bahorel spreading himself over almost two, grinning.

And Courfeyrac is still standing, looking at Jehan with awe.

"Uh", Jehan says, ever so eloquently, and Courfeyrac snaps out of it, slapping himself on the forehead.

"Right! Guys, you already met Jehan, and this is Joly, his roommate. They're ever so grateful to us for providing them with some social life on this fine evening."

Everyone echoes a non-commital "Hi, Jehan", before returning to their conversations. Only Bahorel smiles even wider, and squeezes himself more in the inside of the booth to let them sit.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the poet himself! I guess you decided to crawl out of your apartment and grace us with your presence tonight! I'm not going to say we've been waiting for this, but we _have_ been waiting for this for a long... Courfeyrac, stop kicking me under the table, your feeble attempts at causing me physical harm are pathetic."

Courfeyrac turns red.

"You know, I resented that comment about us having no social life. I have a very busy life", Jehan says to Courfeyrac, trying to steer the subject out of the murky waters of _feelings_.

"More like he sits on the couch all afternoon watching re-runs of 'Friends'", Joly says. Bahorel laughs loudly, from the very depths of his belly, and clasps a friendly hand on Jehan's shoulder.

"Phoebe is my favourite", he says in a conspiratorial whisper.

Jehan smiles, and catches Courfeyrac's eye, who looks at him like he's some rare, endangered creature, and Jehan doesn't know yet if it's annoying or gratifying. He knows it's affecting him, though.

"Hello, boys, what's your poison?", asks Eponine, suddenly appearing by the table. "Hi, Marius", she adds, smiling sweetly at him, and Marius returns the smile absently, staring over her shoulder.

"What are you doing?", asks Combeferre, eyeing him.

"Cosette said she might drop by in here after work with her friends", he answers, stretching to the point he might've as well fallen off his chair.

"Is Cosette that blonde, petite lady you keep going on about? The one with beeeeeeautiful hair and a pair of eyes that are so blue?", asks Bahorel. "Because-"

"Your orders!", says Eponine sharply, whipping out a pen and a pencil.

Everyone stares at her.

"Um, yes", says Joly. "Do you have tea? I have to take care, you know, it's influenza season, and it's always good to..."

"Right you are", she snaps, and scribbles something down furiously. "Excuse me, I just have to-"

And she turns abruptly around and all but marches back to the bar, where she starts making drinks with ferocious determination.

"...and a bit of lemon?", ends Joly faintly.

"Poor gal", says Bahorel. "Something must've upset her."

"Oh no", says Enjolras suddenly. "Oh no, no, no, no, _no_."

He starts sinking in his seat, sliding down until he is barely visible, save for the few stray blond curls. Everyone looks at him with surprise.

"Enjolras, what-", starts Combeferre, but Enjolras waves his arm around threateningly.

"Shut up", he hisses from under the table. "He's here. Maybe he won't see us. Maybe he'll go away."

"I don't know why you don't like the dude so much", Courfeyrac says. "He's hilarious."

"He's obnoxiously loud, frighteningly rude, and drinks to a point that it might be a problem", replies Enjolras' voice. "Need I continue?"

"Or is it just because he's the only one of us who isn't afraid of teasing you here and there?", says Courfeyrac, his smile just a little evil.

"Don't you think", adds Combeferre nervously, lifting the tablecloth so he could peer at Enjolras, "this is a little bit... childish?"

"Who are you talking ab-", starts Marius, but is cut off when Enjolras stamps heavily on his foot.

"Hello", says a voice. They all turn to see a young man with dark curly hair and a wicked smile standing by their booth. He's wearing black, shabby jeans and a green hoodie, which matches his eyes quite well; they positively glisten in the dark.

"Grantaire!", booms Bahorel, lifting his hand for high-five. The man returns it, grinning, and joins the table, with everyone making room for him, slipping easily into the group as if he was always a part of it.

"And what's this? Is the Sun concealing his face tonight?", says Grantaire mockingly in the direction of the golden curls. "Surely the brave Enjolras isn't hiding from _me_."

There is some embarrassed, muffled coughing from under the table, and Enjolras rises once again, his cheeks red.

"I most certainly am _not_ ", he replies haughtily. "I just dropped something, is all."

"And did you retrieve it?", asks Grantaire, voice thick and sweet as honey.

It only takes Enjolras a second to answer.

"...well, no, I, um, I'm afraid it's lost. Yes, I lost it... under the table."

"Right", replies Grantaire, his lips curling even more upwards, before turning his attention to the rest of the group. Enjolras just stares at him, his up until then perfect hair mussed up, and blue eyes incredulous.

"And who, if I may ask, are you?", Grantaire asks Jehan. "I don't believe we had the pleasure. Loving the sweater, though."

"This is Jehan", Courfeyrac says quickly, and Jehan doesn't miss the look he gives Grantaire. Grantaire's smile stays fixed, only his eyebrows arch a little, as she shakes Jehan's hand.

"Oh, _Jehan_ ", he says, with just a slight tone to the name which indicates he's heard it before. "I feel like I know you already." He looks back at Courfeyrac, his smile twisting a little.

" And this is his roommate, Joly."

Joly waves awkwardly.

"Here's your tea", says Eponine, appearing suddenly and putting his cup in front of him a little too forcefully, and then briskly walking away.

"Joly, who apparently drinks tea at 9pm? I am intrigued", says Grantaire with a smile.

"Well, just because you can't imagine drinking anything other than alcohol anytime after, oh, I don't know, 10 in the morning, doesn't mean everyone else is like that", says Enjolras abruptly, and Grantaire cocks an eyebrow.

"My _humblest_ apologies, flawless Apollo", he says, mocking a bow flamboyantly, and everyone bursts into laughter.

"Apollo? That's the greatest thing I've ever heard!", roars Bahorel, slapping a hand on Grantaire's back.

"You do bear a resemblance", Combeferre admits, chuckling at Enjolras' increasingly scarlet face.

"Ridiculous", Enjolras mutters darkly, before sinking in his seat again, resembling a petulant child more than anything else.

Grantaire's eyes turn soft, as he regards Enjolras for a moment with nothing but pure, open affection. The look only lasts a second or two, before he turns away and fixes his usual cocky smile back on, but Jehan catches it.

 

The night goes on, and Jehan finds he likes this new group of people; Bahorel with his booming laughter, Feuilly with his sarcastic, dry remarks, Bossuet with his kind smile; Grantaire with his wit; Enjolras with all of his ideals and passions; Combeferre with his somberness; Courfeyrac... Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac, who watched him all evening like Jehan is some special gem, too precious to be sitting there in the booth of an old café. Courfeyrac with his beret and his carefully disheveled hair and poems he won't admit to sending, but they both know he did. Courfeyrac, who actually listens to what Jehan has to say. Courfeyrac, who is, even now, looking right at him, eyes hopeful.

Jehan looks away, and hopes he isn't blushing.

 

Bossuet stretches, yawning.

The café emptied through the hours; now there was only them and Eponine, washing glasses tiredly.

Marius left over an hour ago, looking disappointed Cosette didn't show up.

"Well, it was fun", Bossuet says, getting up. "But I'm afraid I have to get up in about, hmmm, 10 hours, so it's best I'd be going."

"Me too", agrees Combeferre, getting in his jacket. "Enjolras, are you coming with...?"

"No, I think I'm going to...", Enjolras mutters, watching Grantaire fixedly. The man maybe had one beer too many, and smiled broadly at everyone for the last half an hour. "I'm going to make sure he gets home safe."

"Are you sure?", asks Combeferre. "Because..."

"Leave the man be", says Bahorel quite suddenly, casting a knowing look in Jehan's direction. "If he wants to make sure Grantaire gets his sorry ass to whatever rat hole he lives in safe, then let him."

Enjolras doesn't seem to notice the mischievous tone to Bahorel's words; instead, he keeps his eyes on  Grantaire, lips pressed into a thin line. Grantaire just grins, watching everyone with interest.

"I'm fine", he slurs, waving a hand and barely missing Bossuet's face. "I really am. I don't need a babysitter, _thank youuuuu_."

Enjolras just hauls him upwards by his elbow, looking a mixture of tired and annoyed.

They all walk outside the café, waving goodbye to Eponine, who smiles, brushing the hair out of her eyes with soapy hands.

"The three of us are just going to continue to that jazz club Feuilly mentioned earlier", Bahorel says, patting Joly on the back with such fierce affection it makes the lither man gasp. "I must say I rather like this sickly fellow, such an innocent youth that he is, the kind my corrupted character is always drawn to!"

"He always speaks like that when he's in a good mood", Courfeyrac whispers in Jehan's ear.

"Jehan, you alright with that?", asks Joly anxiously.

"Yeah, I'm fine", answers Jehan.

There is something about the way Courfeyrac's arm presses against his, as they stand next to each other in the cold, starry spring night, that assures him he is completely, totally fine.

Joly, Feuilly and Bahorel start immediately down the street; Feuilly, usually quiet, now talking animatedly about the band who was playing tonight, with Bahorel and Joly listening.

Bossuet and Combeferre go in the other direction, with Bossuet tripping and nearly breaking his nose on the pavement, if Combeferre wasn't there to catch him.

Enjolras stands still, holding Grantare upright, the drunk man leaning heavily on him.

"I think a walk will clear his head enough", says Enjolras seriously. "Come on, you idiot - we're going."

Grantaire lifts his head and regards him blearily, face suddenly somber.

"You're beautiful", he says with all the sincerity and gravity of the truly inebriated.

Enjolras blushes furiously, and casts a glance in Courfeyrac and Jehan's direction before turning back to meet Grantaire's earnest, expectant eyes.

"You're drunk", he replies, voice low. "Let's go."

Courfeyrac and Jehan watch them walk away, not missing Enjolras curving one careful hand around Grantaire's waist when the man stumbles at the street corner.

Courfeyrac sighs.

"There's something terribly sad about that", he says, eyes following the two figures until they disappear from sight.

"I guess so", Jehan agrees. They look at each other for a moment.

"I think I'm going to walk you home", Courfeyrac says.

"I think that would be best, yes ", replies Jehan, a little too quickly.

 

They walk in silence for a few minutes, hands brushing against each other. Jehan doesn't know what to do, or what to say; there is a pool of panic filling his stomach.

 _What are we even doing_ , he thinks in horror. _What are we trying to achieve here?_

Courfeyrac answers that question for him by speaking up suddenly: "I'm really glad you came tonight. I, uh, was hoping you would."

Jehan finds he is tongue-tied. Courfeyrac is sweet, and fun to be around, and surprisingly clever when he stops screwing about and sets his mind to something, as an abrupt debate with Enjolras about the Apollonian and Dionysian cults proved just over an hour ago, but Jehan has had his fair share of fun guys and it all ended the same. He found that caring too much made you cry too much, in the end, and the smartest way to go about things is to stop caring. So he did. Or he tried to, anyway.

"Oh", is all he replies, keeping his eyes firmly on the road before him.

"Did you have fun tonight?", asks Courfeyrac. "The guys... they can be kind of assholes when they don't mean to. I hope nobody offended you, or anything."

"I'm not a blushing maiden, Courfeyrac, if they insulted me in any way, I would have been able to fend for myself", Jehan says, because most people make various kinds of assumptions about the connection of flowers on Jehan's shirts and his actual ability to stand up for himself, as if the two were linked. He says it softly, though, because he's used to it by now, and Courfeyrac looks genuinely worried.

"They were nice."

"But I bet tonight didn't give you any help in the whole inspiration department, huh", says Courfeyrac, nudging Jehan's shoulder with his own. "You mentioned writer's block earlier today."

"No", replies Jehan, a little mournfully. "It's kind of horrible, to be honest. I've been stuck for so long, it feels like I can't, you know, 'unstuck' myself?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about", Courfeyrac replies honestly. "But I'm still listening."

"It's just... feeling blocked. Like I have so many things to say, but I just can't express myself. Like there is an explosion of words, feelings, inside of me, but I've put a cork on the bottle, and now I can't take it off? And it's driving me crazy. Sorry, I'm sounding stupid, aren't I."

"No, I don't think so", says Courfeyrac, his hand reaching to Jehan's, who tucks his own into his pocket.

He's not ready for that yet. Not tonight.

"Hey, would you look at that", Courfeyrac suddenly says, and if he's even the slightest bit of upset, he doesn't show it, straying from the sidewalk with excitement. "It's a violet. First spring flowers."

Technically, it's snowdrops, but Jehan's not one to argue, especially with the way the moonlight frames Courfeyrac's figure, bending over a small patch of grass beside the pavement.

"I'm going to pick it", Courfeyrac announces.

Jehan's half-hearted "don't" doesn't even make it past his lips as Courfeyrac takes the flower with one small, victorious "aha!" as if he's just won some gruesome battle.

"You shouldn't have", mutters Jehan, but the words turn into a mere whisper when Courfeyrac reaches and tucks the flower in his hair, twisting it behind Jehan's ear, with an odd, concentrated look on his face.

When Courfeyrac smiles again, softly, with fondness in his eyes, and brushes his fingers against the length of Jehan's jaw, something hot and electric unfurls in Jehan's stomach.

The moon reflects in Courfeyrac's eyes as he says to Jehan, quietly and somberly:

"I hope you find something that truly inspires you soon."

 

*****

When Joly comes home at 5am, feeling bruised all over from Bahorel's affectionate punches and smelling of Feuilly's cigarette smoke, Jehan is in the living room, asleep on the couch, in an angle that truly looks impossible at first, feet hanging of the edge and a hand still grasping a pencil tightly, with his face down in the cushions, pages upon pages of his poetry notebook freshly filled.

 

*****

The next morning, a slip of paper is waiting for him at his desk, with Cosette snickering behind her mug of tea. He wants to say something about her smug expression, but he guesses it can wait a moment or two.

The words unfurl before him, in that same writing Jehan is starting to greet like an old friend, recognizing each curve of each letter.

 

_Lovely one,_  
 _With delicate hands and slender feet_  
 _Like a silver pony,_  
 _Walking, flower of the world,_  
 _Thus I see you,_  
 _Lovely one._  
  
 _Lovely one,_  
 _With a nest of copper entangled_  
 _On your head, a nest_  
 _The colour of dark honey_  
 _Where my heart burns and rests,_  
 _Lovely one._  
  
 _Lovely one,_  
 _Your eyes are too big for your face,_  
 _Your eyes are too big for the earth._

 

Jehan gasps.

"It's Neruda", he says, his voice catching somewhere in his throat.

This isn't fair. Jehan _loves_ Neruda.

He stares at the words, pronouncing them in his head, enjoying the rhythm, the flow of the lines; he's read this poem before, a thousand times over, and now someone - he _knows_ who, he just doesn't want to think it -dedicated it to _him_.

Idly, he picks a violet petal from his uncombed morning hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is Lovely One by Pablo Neruda, because when I saw that verse about copper coloured hair, I just couldn't resist.  
> It is Jehan through and through.
> 
> Leave your comments and such and such below!


	5. Chapter 5

The poems start arriving regularly, small folds of paper waiting for him every morning at his desk, and Cosette laughing behind her cup of tea.

Jehan can't help but admit they're all... lovely. Frost, Goethe, Keats, Neruda, Schiller, Whitman, Shelley, Byron, Cummings, the Brontés, they all make an appearance or two, with carefully selected stanzas or quatrains or couplets, all serenading _him_ with their most gorgeous lines. Jehan would protest and say it has no effect on him whatsoever, but then he would be lying.

Cosette jokes about it, and Marius gets puffy-faced every time the subject comes up, and it turns into a constant in the life of the library - Jehan's love letters, they call them, and Jehan blushes and shakes his head shyly as he tucks the newest one into his pocket.

He keeps them all in a small wooden bowl on his bedside table, and sometimes, when he can't sleep, picks them out at random and reads them, tracing his fingers over the crooked handwriting.

He hasn't seen Courfeyrac at all, not once since that moonlit walk, almost three weeks ago; Marius said it was because of midterms, and Jehan understands, he really does. And it's not like he _misses_ Courfeyrac, not at all. He just thinks about that walk... a lot.

But the poems keep him company, anyway, filling him with light every morning, little rays of sunshine he could carry with him wherever he went. He never sees the mysterious (he still doesn't want to admit it to himself) sender - the poems always seemed to arrive whenever he wasn't around.

 

This morning is no different than the rest; when Jehan stumbles in the library, shivering from the cold March wind, there is a piece of paper on his counter, waiting patiently, and Cosette is smiling mischievously.

Today, it's Shakespeare.

 

   _All days are nights to see till I see thee,_  
    _And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me._

 

Jehan smiles, and brushes a thumb over the page, touching the words gently.

The until then unvoiced question wriggles in his mind.

"But how does he always know when I'm not here-", he starts, and then looks at Cosette, who is staring determinedly at the wall, feigning innocence, tortoise shell spectacles perched on top of her nose.

"You... You're in _cahoots_ with him, aren't you?", Jehan says, eyes narrowing.

" I don't think anyone says cahoots anymore", Cosette replies serenely, not meeting Jehan's accusatory look.

"You sneaky-"

"You have to admit it's all very romantic", she protests, turning to face him. "How could I deny him? He looked so eager, like a little puppy."

"You _actually_ tell him when I'm not working, so he can come and leave the cards-"

"Oh, come on, Jehan, it's so sweet! I wish someone had the guts to do something like that for _me_ ", she says, eyes darting to the children's department, where Marius is getting heckled by a group of seven year olds. Jehan decides not to ask, currently preoccupied with his own problem. If he could even call it that.

He feels flattered, but confused. People sending other people poems happened only in movies; he doesn't understand why _him_ , of all people, would be the recipient of such a wild gesture.

Wild, very specifically _romantic_ gesture.

He remembers the moon in Courfeyrac's eyes, silver and green, and a gentle smile which made his head spin.

"This is horrifying", he says. He doesn't want to care. He doesn't, and he is, against all reason, caring.

He is caring, rather a lot. He doesn't want to miss Courfeyrac's stupid face, and his stupid messy hair, and his proneness to drama and a personality that indeed resembled a loyal puppy more than anything else. And yet, he does. Something sick twists in his stomach.

"What's the worst that can happen? You might actually get laid?", Cosette says, pursing her lips.

He hates her. He hates her so much when she's right.

In truth, he's just afraid. He's spent so much of his life reading about love, the kind of love fever-eyed, wild haired Romantic poets wrote about under candlelight, the mad passion and the hysterical happiness, that he's afraid of experiencing it in real life and being inevitably disappointed.

He's a person who has learned to love fiercely, openly and lastingly; he's not sure everyone else is built that way. People disappointed him in that aspect, mostly.

So he built himself walls made of words and paper, and tucked himself away and experienced life - _love_ \- from pages of books. It was much safer that way, anyway.

*****

It's a sunny, quiet morning, and the library is completely empty except for Jehan, bent over a not particularly interesting article about the poetry of Classicism versus the Romantics, when Courfeyrac all but waltzes in, carefully balancing two paper cups in his hands. Jehan lifts his gaze from the magazine to look at him with forcedly casual interest. He is surprised, pleasantly so; he hasn't seen Courfeyrac for almost a whole month now, and is ( _horribly, irrationally_ ) happy to look at him, but he won't give him the satisfaction of showing just how much.

The morning's poem, a short couplet by Robert Frost, is crunching in his jumper pocket, but he knows better by now than to mention it.

The poems are a fragile, unspoken bond between them; and admitting to their existence would break it.

"I thought you'd appreciate this", Courfeyrac says, putting one steaming cup in front of him.

Jehan raises an eyebrow.

"No, but honestly, today I am here for _purely_ academic reasons", says Courfeyrac, lifting his hands in the air. He's wearing a bright red bowtie today; Jehan thinks he looks more like a cartoon character than a real person, sometimes. "My professor told me I need to find the unabridged transcript of the Nuremberg trials, and this library is famous for its collection of the World War documents, so... The coffee was purely coincidental, believe me. It was a 'buy one, get one for free' kind of thing."

Jehan is not fooled by the Dr. Horrible act, but he eyes the coffee in front of him. It looks innocent enough, hot liquid filling the room with its intoxicatingly bitter scent. And Jehan hasn't had his morning cup of caffeine yet.

He takes it and sips gingerly, trying to ignore the way Courfeyrac's eyes light up.

"How's your writer's block?", Courfeyrac asks, leaning on Jehan's counter with his elbows, and putting his chin in his hands.

"Gone, thankfully", Jehan replies, before drinking some more. The coffee is too sweet and very hot against his tongue; he drinks it anyway, feeling himself relax more and more. He decides not to mention the three splotchy pages in his notebook, filled with messy couplets and incoherent sonnets about Courfeyrac's smile, scribbled hastily somewhere around 3am, and a flower, pressed between its binds.

"So now you're this very serious business Law major, huh?", he says, searching through the computer catalogue to see if they even have the documents. "So studious. Never thought I'd use that word linked with you."

Courfeyrac chuckles softly, his eyes following Jehan's hands as they dance across the keyboard.

"What can I say? I may have hidden depths, and you, Jean Prouvaire, are a judgmental little creature."

"This computer is so slow", Jehan mutters, and turns back to Courfeyrac, as he waits for the scan to complete. "You might have to wait a couple of minutes."

"No problem", Courfeyrac says, his grin infectious.

"So why did you elect it? Law major?", asks Jehan, because he's genuinely intrigued. "You don't seem the stuffy, white pressed shirts, thin black cravats type."

"I want to help people", says Courfeyrac simply, and Jehan falls a little in love with him at that moment.

 

It's an hour later when Cosette comes in, only to see the two of them talking animatedly, cups of coffee long forgotten, and to her credit, doesn't even raise an eyebrow. She passes by Jehan, gives him a Look, and hides in the far off corner to catalogue, giving them privacy.

They talk lightly about each other's lives, curious.

 

Jehan has two older sisters from whom he steals clothes sometimes when they're not looking.

Courfeyrac has two older brothers and a sister and is, also, the youngest child, making him the inevitable loser of all wrestling matches started in the Courfeyrac household, and there was a lot of them.

No, _this_ sweater is his own, _honestly_.

Courfeyrac likes turtles and dogs, mostly because when he was young he was obsessed with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. His favourite is - shockingly - Michelangelo.

Jehan is a cat person, and once took a kitten from the street only to be forced by his parents to take it back, due to his mother being allergic. He wrote his first poem about that kitten.

He's never watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, which makes Courfeyrac gasp.

He likes his coffee black and strong, and shoots a look to Courfeyrac to indicate that if he even thinks the phrase 'just like your men', the conversation will end immediately.

Courfeyrac likes sweet coffee with lots of milk, to the point it might just not be a coffee and actually a milkshake with bits of caffeine.

Jehan tries it. He makes a face.

Courfeyrac laughs.

 

It feels good, talking with somebody about such miscellaneous things, with someone who actually listens to you babble like it's the most important thing in their life.

It isn't a date, though. It's nothing like it.

Just a friendly conversation over coffee.

 

It's almost an hour and a half before Jehan remembers why Courfeyrac is here in the first place.

"Shit, the documents!", he says suddenly, and swirls in his chair to look at the long ago completed search. Courfeyrac bites his lip, watching him with amusement, and says:  "I think that's hardly workplace appropriate talk, mister Prouvaire."

"I think I can trust you not to rat me out", Jehan replies over his shoulder, missing the look of complete adoration Courfeyrac gives him, and the way his eyes then slowly trail down to Jehan's ass, before he forces himself to look away, blushing.

"You're lucky", Jehan informs him, still focused on the information on the screen. "We've got 'em. I'm just gonna..."

He gets up and walks in between the shelves, eyes scanning the books.

He truly is a lovely sight, Courfeyrac thinks, watching him serenely. Green, wide eyes, and mouth just slightly parted, the tip of his tongue sticking out, and wobbling on his tiptoes, Jehan reaches an elegant arm, clad in a light pink sweater, and grabs a file from the top shelf. The line of his body is delicate and soft; as he stretches, his shirt lifts up, and Courfeyrac can see the pale rosy skin of Jehan's lower back, with two barely visible, symmetrical dimples; he averts his eyes guiltily, his cheeks burning now twice as bright.

"Here you go", says Jehan, re-emerging from the forest of books. He hands him the file.

"We usually don't let people take these home, but I think I can make an exception. Just don't leave chocolate stains on it, or animal droppings, or blood of virgins, or whatever."

Courfeyrac huffs.

"You really think I'd do that?"

"I have a pretty wild imagination", Jehan tells him, and smiles. "It certainly isn't impossible."

They grin stupidly at each other for a moment, just standing there, in the middle of the library. Jehan would take a moment to think about how utterly foolish they are being, but he's too distracted by Courfeyrac's sudden proximity, without the comforting presence of a firm wooden table between them.

Courfeyrac steps a little closer, making Jehan move backwards, and bump into his desk awkwardly.

"I, uh, missed you", Courfeyrac says, looking at the floor. "I'm sorry, is that a stupid thing to say? Am I stupid? I mean, we barely know each other, but...", he takes a deep breath, and looks up, meeting Jehan's eyes. "I did. I missed you."

"It's not a stupid thing to say, I think", Jehan says. _I missed you, too_ , he thinks, but doesn't say.

A smile breaks on Courfeyrac's nervous face, full of relief. Jehan feels the anxious knot in his stomach loosen, and he smiles back. The room brightens instantly, lazy morning sun pushing through the windows, colouring Courfeyrac's skin in a warm shade of gold. Jehan can see little speckles of dust settling in his thick eyelashes, and a spot on his neck where he probably cut himself shaving earlier.

He suddenly feels panic bubbling in his throat.

"So", mutters Courfeyrac, his face now only a few inches from Jehan's. The air between them feels charged, electric, and Courfeyrac can't help but feel he is literally being pulled in, towards the wide-eyed boy in front of him, by some invisible magnetic force. His eyelids flutter shut, and he leans in, only to find an empty space instead of Jehan's lips.

He opens his eyes abruptly, just to see Jehan almost three feet away, packing hurriedly.

"Would you look at the time", Jehan rambles, his voice high. "I really need to, uh, be going. It's almost, wow, I'm way late to a thing, uh, the thing I am late to. I have to, you know, go, now, immediately-"

"Jehan", says Courfeyrac, his voice hoarse, hoping he doesn't sound as desperate as he really is.

But the room is already empty, the door falling slowly shut behind the poet, and the draft rustling the pages of open books.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, school is rough. This was supposed to be a far longer chapter, but I had to cut it into two parts, because otherwise I would finish it in 2015, or something. Ugh why can't I just stay at homeeee all dayyy and writeeeeee  
> And the last time I was in a library I think I was probably about 10 years old. (Libraries, how do they work)
> 
> I had, like, four different Shakespeare's sonnets from which I had to choose lines from, and trust me, it was a hard decision. In the end, I've decided on no. 43, even though all of them were just lovely. Sighhhh Shakespeare is the best.


	6. Chapter 6

"We came as soon as we could", says Combeferre, taking off his coat and taking in the situation with the calmness of a natural dealer with crisis; Marius, wringing his hands, hair sticking out wildly at all ends from running his fingers nervously through it; the heavy bass of a Maroon 5 song echoing through the apartment walls; Courfeyrac's voice, wailing along with Adam Levine, coming through the closed door of his room, accompanied by loud, unexplainable thumps. He takes a deep breath.

Beside him, Enjolras is on his phone, seemingly unbothered by his environment.

"He's been like this all day", Marius says desperately. "Moaning and muttering and arguing with himself, and then he just went to his room, shut the door, and played this. It's been on repeat since then. I counted how many times. 43 times. Forty-three times. He's listened to this song forty-three times, along with me. I'm not sure, but I think my brain has melted."

" _I - am - in misery_ ", they hear Courfeyrac sing. There's another thump before he continues:

" _There ain't nobody who can - comfort - me-_ "

" _Oooh, girl, you really got me bad, you really got me bad_ ", mutters Enjolras in time with the music, still typing, and completely misses the look of utter shock Combeferre gives him.

Combeferre pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes.

There was a system behind Courfeyrac's choices of music. Usually, he listened to old, big band music, and crooners like Sinatra or Dean Martin, with a healthy dose of Tom Jones and Bublé, calling them his 'Casanova tunes', which always earned him quite a few exasperated looks. When he was feeling down, he tended to switch to more modern things, pop-rock and boy bands.

Combeferre is just glad it isn't Coldplay. When he starts listening to Coldplay, it's a clear sign things have gone to shit.

"What's he doing in there, anyway?", asks Enjolras, lifting his eyes suddenly from his phone and looking at the door. There is another thump, but a bit softer than the rest.

"I don't think he's dramatic enough to actually hit his head repeatedly against the wall, but it sure sounds like it", says Marius.

"We should probably go in there and talk to him about his feelings or something", says Enjolras, his voice sounding pained. They stay silent for a minute, listening to the song. Combeferre realizes he's tapping his foot in the rhythm, and stops in horror.

"Courfeyrac?", Enjolras calls out uncertainly. "You alright in there... buddy?"

He winces at this words, and looks at Marius and Combeferre, who make grimaces in return.

"I am _trying_ to be more friendly", he hisses.

There is a pause before Courfeyrac shouts back: "No, of course I'm _not_ alright, and probably won't be ever again!"

They exchange helpless looks.

There is another moment of mutual silence, before Courfeyrac turns the volume of the music down, turning the song into just one, constant, thrumming beat in the background.

"Did you just call me _buddy_?"

******

Two hours later, all four of them are sitting on the floor of Courfeyrac's room, the song still playing on loop, sharing their second bottle of wine.

"It's just... I was _so sure_ , you know, and he just shut me down. Just like that. Was I pushing it? I might've been pushing it. I'm known for pushing things", Courfeyrac says blearily, staring in front of him.

"Yes, but that's why we love you", Combeferre says absently, more focused on drawing little circles in the carpet with his index finger. Marius just sighs, and takes a giant sip straight from the bottle.

"I mean, we might not even work together? I'm too loud, and over-bearing, and, well, just myself, I guess, and he's just so... Jehan."

"No", says Enjolras abruptly, his eyes crossing slightly. "No, Courfeyrac, you shouldn't give up."

"Why not? It's not like he's given me any incentive to base my further actions on."

Combeferre takes a moment to admire Courfeyrac's ability to put together three syllable words when he is smashingly, dizzily drunk. Then he continues drawing circles in the carpet.

"No. He likes you, Courfeyrac, you know that. And for all your differences, you just might work out. It's that 'might' that should keep you going, you know. It _might_ fail, but it _might_ be something wonderful. And even if you're so different you're actually two opposite poles, you shouldn't give up just because...", Enjolras stops talking suddenly, and bites his lip.

"Just because you're afraid of it", he finishes, and whips out his phone.

"I don't think drunk texting Grantaire is such a good idea", Combeferre warns him.

"I am _not_ texting him", Enjolras says, but his ears turn pink.

Combeferre didn't want to question the sudden transition from 'that idiot' to 'Grantaire', and the incessant texting that went on between the two, ever since the night Enjolras took a drunk, overly-affectionate Grantaire home, almost four weeks ago, and returned to the apartment at 3am, oddly quiet.

"Like hell you aren't", he says, and lunges, determined to save at least some of his friend's dignity.

They fumble for the phone, and Marius yelps as they almost knock over the wine bottle, and Courfeyrac laughs, throwing his head back in pure joy. He picks up the phone from the floor, where it landed after Combeferre clumsily kicked it out of Enjolras' hands, and squints at the screen, eyes focusing with some difficulty.

After a moment, he looks up and grins.

 "This is some class C drunk text. Oh, Enjolras, you can do much better than _that_."

"I hate all of you", says Enjolras, squeezed underneath Combeferre, his face in the floor.

*****

Jehan is a coward and a craven and he won't ever be able to look Courfeyrac in the eye again, presuming Courfeyrac ever wants to even see _him_ again.

He ran away, like he always did when confronted with an unsettling situation, or one he wasn't entirely sure of. Like he always ran away from people, when it got too much - Jehan can't help he feels overwhelmed with emotion from time to time, and can't function like a normal person on those occasions. It was just too much, too soon, for him, being so uncertain of the way he felt.

What does Courfeyrac even want with him? The open, friendly, charismatic young man with a constant, winning smile, with the stuttering lump of repressed feelings that was Jehan? And whatever he _did_ want with him - an image of Courfeyrac's lips, hovering over Jehan's, floats up in his mind - Jehan's ruined it now, by being the panicking, shrieking excuse of a human being he is.

He walks slowly to the library, side-stepping pools of rain, and listening to the birds chirp, his heart sitting heavily in his chest. The morning is beautiful, and in other circumstances, he would take his time walking to work, but today, he speeds up, anxious to get behind his counter and then possibly suffocate himself out of his misery, or ask Cosette to do it.

 

He is most certainly not expecting the piece of paper on his desk.

"What...?", he mumbles, and picks it up, unfolding it gingerly.

 

_I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair._

_Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets._

_Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day_

_I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps._

Jehan gulps.

"Well, this is getting... interesting", Cosette says, peering over his shoulder.

"Shut up", he says, feeling his cheeks burning.

"Why?", she asks, raising an eyebrow. "You've got a cute, nice guy who sends you love poems. I think that's a fact definitely not deserving shutting up about."

"Yes, well...", he starts, before he sees her eyes. She's got her Serious Face on. He hates it when she gets all serious, and wants to talk, usually about _feelings_. Sometimes she reminds him too much of his own mother for it to be considered good or healthy.

"What did you do, Jehan?", she says, blue eyes blazing.

"Nothing!", he protests. "I didn't do anything!"

She twists her mouth into an expression of disbelief, and crosses her arms.

"Well, I'm not one to pry-"

"No, not at all", Jehan mutters, and she gives him a look.

"Like I said, I'm not one to pry", she continues, voice just slightly raised to let him know he will, _by God_ , hear this one out. "But your guy looked really distraught this morning when he dropped it off. And you have that 'I don't want to talk about it' look, which you have rather often, and most of the time, I respect that, but goddamnit, Jehan, we will talk about it now."

Jehan opens his mouth to speak, but she puts a finger on his lips, effectively silencing him.

"No, not done yet. I know that you probably, in a true Jehanish fashion, want to go curl up in the corner, and write about it in your diary-"

"It's a notebook", Jehan says to her finger, and she just presses it firmer in response.

"Look at me", she says softly, and Jehan meets her eyes, which are kind, but determined.

"You can't do this to yourself all your life, Jehan", she says gently. "Confide in your poetry and your books and your job, and push away the people who try to come close. Because it's making you unhappy. If it was what you wanted, I wouldn't say a thing. But I think you know you're unhappy. You're a person full of love, Jehan, I don't know why you don't want to let it out. How about you talk about how you feel, but not to a sheet of paper today? How about you talk about it with me... or Courfeyrac?"

Courfeyrac's name, said out loud, makes Jehan's chest actually ache. If he ever had a counter-argument, or a good comment in his defense, it is entirely lost now. He is struck silent.

Cosette pushes him down into his chair, and sits next to him.

"You like him, don't you? I've seen the way you looked at him yesterday."

"I do", Jehan says quietly. It comes out as a whisper, a sigh, a confession.

He... _likes_ Courfeyrac, for the lack of a better word for it.

It's something he's been keeping in for what feels like an eternity, expertly bottled up along with everything else. It's quite easy, once you get the hang of it; shutting your mouth and your heart, everything and anything that made you feel, and therefore, hurt. He mastered the skill a long time ago, turning all of his emotions into poetry, emptying his heart on paper, and zipping it back up when he was done writing. But now, there was Courfeyrac, who came into his world like a raging hurricane, only far more pleasant, and messed everything up with his charming smile and over-sugared coffee.

"I think you should let him know that", Cosette says.

Jehan thinks he agrees.

"You should do it, because it will make you happy. And you should always do things that make you happy, because life is short, and you can't just sit around, and..."

She trails off, her eyes focusing on something over Jehan's head.

"D' you know what?", she says, abruptly standing up. "I think it's about time I took my own advice. If you'll excuse me", and she walks away briskly.

Jehan watches her through the wall as she marches in the children's department, and Marius almost falls off his chair in surprise. She leans over the counter and starts talking, then; Jehan turns his eyes away. It's not a scene that needs him watching over, he guesses.

In his hands, he fiddles with the piece of paper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last update before I go off and be all 'productive' for the week or whatever. Sigh.  
> I'm sorry for this chapter, which is just a bundle of misery and kind of angst? Can you really be overwhelmed with situations and people's feelings while simultaneously repressing your own? Well, here you can, anyway.
> 
> Oh, Pablo Neruda, we love you so. (It was so hard for me to pick only two of his poems to put in the story)  
> That was his Sonnet XI.
> 
> Leave me comments, questions, etc., etc., etc.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This sweet union of lips  
> is the red marriage-bed of a pair of smiles." 
> 
> -Rabindranath Tagore

Courfeyrac feels nervous, stepping back into the library after almost a whole week.

Marius' text was rather unclear on the subject of _why_ exactly he needed him to come, but the words _URGENT_ and _AS SOON AS POSSIBLE,_ dripping with the hysteria all caps usually cause, along with the quite frankly unnecessary amount of exclamation points, had him half sprinting towards the library as soon as he read it. Only when he faced the large, stained glass library door, he faltered a little.

He was sure Jehan was there, inside, somewhere; Jehan, who ran away when Courfeyrac tried to kiss him, spouting nonsense and almost tripping over himself in the rush. Courfeyrac is not very fond of awkward situations, and he is determined to avoid the one that might happen if they run into each other.

Another text message lights up on his phone screen.

 _I'M IN THE ADULT'S DEPARTMENT,_ it says, in all caps again _. COME QUICK._

Courfeyrac's chest puffs up in a surge of pride and heroic feelings.

He wouldn't admit it, but he's often had fantasies of himself being someone's knight in shining armour, saving them from some horrible peril with a winning smile and a well-polished sword. He was usually rewarded with a silk handkerchief (booger free), a red rose, or a chaste kiss. What came after the kiss, he didn't know, seeing as by that point his bathwater would usually have gone cold and all the bubbles would have disappeared, too.

In all his heroic might, he barges in the adult's department with a loud shout, holding his hands in front of him, clasped together to form an imitation of a gun. If Combeferre was there, he'd say Courfeyrac's been watching too much 'Law & Order' reruns again _._

There is _never_ too much Law & Order in your life, Courfeyrac replies grimly in his mind.

"Marius, I have come to save you!", he announces, his voice carrying through the room, bouncing off walls. It fills him with a strange, forbidden sort of pleasure, yelling in a library _._ He thinks he should do it more often.

A figure jumps up from behind the counter, holding both of their hands in the air in surrender, one of them clutching a familiar looking phone.

"Jehan?", Courfeyrac says, lowering his imaginary weapon. "Is that Marius' phone?"

"Yes", Jehan admits, putting his arms down guiltily. "I... stole it from him. I thought it was the best way to get you here on short notice, and I... er... I didn't really think past this part, actually. Don't tell Marius."

"I won't", says Courfeyrac, feeling like an idiot. "So... there's no danger? Peril? Damsels in distresses?"

"I'm afraid not", Jehan says. "I could ask Cosette to be a damsel in distress for you, but I don't think she'd like that idea very much."

"Yeah, let's not do that", says Courfeyrac. He's heard all about Cosette's ninja prowess from Marius (among all the other things he got to hear about her, all day, _every day_ ), and he isn't too eager to try it out on his own skin.

"Yeah, okay. Um..."

"Yes."

They stare at each other for a moment, before Jehan breaks the silence, running a hand through his hair:

"Wow, I... I really didn't think this whole thing through."

"What thing?", Courfeyrac says, stepping a little closer, because Jehan is far too lovely to look at, even when he's nervous like this, even if things are supposed to be awkward between the two of them, and, well, Courfeyrac is just too charmed to give a damn.

"The thing where I get you to come here and talk with me", says Jehan, biting his lip.

"I'm here, aren't I?", says Courfeyrac. "Let's talk."

Jehan huffs impatiently.

"No, it's... It's complicated."

"I don't see why it should be", Courfeyrac replies. He feels this is something important for Jehan; some threshold is about to get crossed, and he certainly doesn't want to get in the way.

"I need to check some books", Jehan says suddenly, and disappears between the shelves. Courfeyrac follows him silently.

Stepping between rows and rows of books is like stepping into a whole new different world; the light is softer, somehow, and everything feels hushed and private; every conversation turns to a whisper.

Jehan walks briskly down the D section, stopping here and there, his hands touching books almost reverently; he picks up a few, looks at their titles, and then puts them back again. There is an urgency to his actions, an anxiousness, suggesting he's doing it only to take his mind off some bigger matter. Courfeyrac stands beside him, watching him without a word.

"You sent me all those poems, didn't you? I just, I just need to hear you say it", says Jehan quietly, his eyes on a leather bound Dostoevsky. His fingers touch it lightly, tracing the spine.

Courfeyrac watches his hands as he replies softly: "Yes."

Jehan nods quickly, and walks away again.

Courfeyrac follows him to the C section, where little rays of sunshine push their way between shelves and illuminate the passage warmly. They stop by Agatha Christie, and Courfeyrac is so close to Jehan he feels it's getting harder to breathe. Jehan keeps his eyes firmly on the books before him. Courfeyrac reaches out and touches him gently on the back of his hand, his wrist, drags his fingers along Jehan's arm until Jehan shivers and Courfeyrac smiles, and leans over his shoulder, pressing against Jehan's back. Jehan smells of strawberries and flowers, sweet and inviting, and it takes all Courfeyrac's strength to compose himself, because whatever Jehan's has in mind, it's not done yet, and Courfeyrac respects that.

"And why?", Jehan asks. He is not looking at him, he can't right now, because if he meets Courfeyrac's eyes, and sees Courfeyrac's smile, he'll waver, he knows that. He needs to get this done right.

"Why I sent you those poems?", Courfeyrac says. "You're really asking me that? I sent them, Jehan, because I meant every word of them, and I myself could never say it as right. I'm not good with words, I'm more of a touchy - feely kind of guy."

He demonstrates his point by brushing one stray curl behind Jehan's ear with care. "But I know", he murmurs, "I _see_ how words are important to you. So I tried my best to make my intentions clear - in other people's words, yes, but I have to tell you, I don't think you'd like my poems all that much."

" _You_ wrote poems?", Jehan asks. His eyes have gone darker than usual, and lost that determined flare they had in the beginning of this conversation.

"I tried", says Courfeyrac. "That's the key word. You should see my high school essays. My English teacher cried real tears."

There is a pause, filled with such force Courfeyrac thinks he can feel the ground shaking. He takes a deep breath, feeling more and more dizzy by the minute. Jehan's back shudders against him, and they stay like that for a moment, breathing against each other. When Jehan suddenly breaks away and starts down the row, it takes Courfeyrac a moment to gather himself before he comes after him.

"Jehan", he says, catching up, and no one's ever said his name like that before, like it's so sweet and precious on their tongue, and that's what finally makes Jehan turn around and meet Courfeyrac's eyes.

He feels electric, his heart jumping somewhere in his throat, and his chest choked up with something so intense he's certain he's never felt it before.

Courfeyrac steps closer, and Jehan leans against the shelf behind him. One of Courfeyrac's hands comes up slowly to rest on his hip, and the other reaches out to his face.

And now Courfeyrac's got him pressed up somewhere against Baudelaire and Bukowski, his gentle smile positively blinding. Jehan can smell that dusty, comforting smell of old books, one he's known all of his life, and another, musky and soft, the scent of Courfeyrac's perfume. They mix together well, in one overwhelming cloud which fills Jehan's head and makes it hazy.

"Any other questions?", Courfeyrac says quietly, his eyes not leaving Jehan's own for a second.

"No", Jehan says, in barely a whisper. He runs his fingers against Courfeyrac's hand, the one on his hip, and Courfeyrac just turns his palm and laces their fingers together.

Jehan feels like he can't breathe, like all the space in his lungs has been filled with the grey green light in Courfeyrac's eyes, and the way they're pressed together now, chest on chest, hip on hip, hand in hand.

"I have one", Courfeyrac mutters, his thumb brushing the side of Jehan's face. "Can I kiss you now?"

Jehan won't dignify him with an answer; instead he leans in and just presses his lips with his own, his other hand jumping to Courfeyrac's neck, and Courfeyrac responds instantly, his mouth eager against Jehan's.

Jehan's brain shuts down completely, lost in the sensation of Courfeyrac's lips, their hands, caught up in each other, Courfeyrac's whole body, slowly rolling in rhythm with Jehan's own. He feels like he's melting, and his legs quiver a little, and Courfeyrac moves his hand from Jehan's face to his waist, to steady him, and presses them even closer, and all Jehan can do is hold on, and kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and kiss until he forgets his own name or where he is, or that the shelf behind them is probably very close to falling over.

Courfeyrac slides his tongue over Jehan's lower lip, hesitantly, questioningly, like it needed to be asked, _really_ , and Jehan opens his mouth, pulling and pushing and giving himself entirely to this, something he needed to do a long time ago. He can feel Courfeyrac smiling against his lips, and opens his eyes to meet Courfeyrac's, and they break apart, only for a moment, to look at each other.

"I think, I think this is okay", Jehan says, all in a rush, after he remembers how to speak.

"He said with the true eloquence of a poet", Courfeyrac replies, grinning, and Jehan has to kiss him again, just to wipe that stupid smile off his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so this started out lightly enough and then it turned something INTENSE. I wrote this in two feverish hours, and just... well. I wouldn't write it any other way, though. Library make-outs are everyone's secret fantasy, right? Right?
> 
> Leave your comments down below, as they would be much appreciated, and thanks for being lovely and sticking with this fic until the end!  
> <3


End file.
